Whipped
by RanMouri82
Summary: Heiji's little follower gives him something to think about.


_Whipped_

"Oh, you should've seen how _beautiful_ Ran looked in her gown!" gushed Toyama Kazuha, from her seat on Hattori Heiji's bedroom floor, as she straddled a greasy bag of potato chips. She swished her ponytail and fished inside the aluminum bag with a romantic air. She had been like this since returning from the gown fitting in Tokyo last week and did not seem ready to change any time soon. Blushing, she murmured, "Sonoko's so right: Ran was _made_ to be a bride."

Heiji, the dark-skinned Detective of the West, sprawled on his bed with the latest motorcyclist's magazine and arched an eyebrow at Kazuha's dreamy gaze. "But that didn't stop you from stringing all those stupid charms around her neck?"

"Well, if Shin'ichi hadn't snuck a peek, I wouldn't have had to!" Kazuha huffed between chomps. "He could've cursed their marriage for _years_, but," she said, with a self satisfied smile, "I think he's finally seeing things my way."

Yawning, Heiji flipped a page and adjusted the pillow beneath his elbows. "More like he didn't want to make a scene."

Kazuha stuck her nose in the air with dignified silence; having polished off the last of the chips, she crumpled the bag and tossed it into a wastebasket beneath Heiji's desk. When she did so, however, she spotted a wooden-framed photograph crammed in a corner beside the computer. "Oh, this is from the festival, right?"

Heiji nodded, without looking up, and said, "Yup. After you practically forced me to make twenty costumes, I guess it turned out all right."

"But I still liked my original idea of a fantasy ball," Kazuha mused, cocking her head to the side at the picture of her and Heiji, in the midst of their class, waving cardboard cutouts of tomatoes for their vegetable garden theme. Suddenly, she clapped her hands and beckoned stars into her eyes once more. "With Ran's plans, her wedding will be like a fairyland, and," she paused, shooting the oblivious Heiji a glare, "at least _Shin'ichi's_ willing to go along with it."

Flipping another glossy page, Heiji chuckled. "That's because Kudou's whipped."

"W-whipped?" Kazuha cried, dropping her jaw. "Idiot, what makes you think—"

"Oh, Kudou'd never admit it, but he's whipped something fierce," Heiji laughed, raising himself to sit upright on the bed. "He spends most of his waking hours with Ran and does her a thousand favors; and when they planned a dinner for their families, he even helped Ran trick her parents into meeting each other. If that's not whipped, I don't know _what_ is."

"Well then, what do you call it when we spend time together, when you help me with homework, or," Kazuha asked, flustered, as she flung a finger toward the photograph, "the time you made all those costumes?"

Heiji leaned his back against the wall and smirked. "That's different."

As a hot blush crept to her cheeks, Kazuha leaned forward and, after kicking aside Heiji's fallen magazine, planted her fists on her hips. "How?"

"Well, it's just that, uh," Heiji stammered, shrinking into the blankets, "you're . . . not exactly . . . ."

Kazuha promptly turned on her heel and stomped toward the door as Heiji leaped to his feet.

"Hey, Kaz—" But Heiji screeched to a halt when he saw her stop at the doorknob, trembling. In a second, she turned again and thrust her face close to his, flushing like a tomato.

"Let's get one thing straight, Hattori Heiji!" she yelled, her feet rooted in the plush carpet. "Shin'ichi might be whipped or he might not be; but if he _is_, it's still better than being a 'little follower'!"

Gulping, Heiji froze in place when Kazuha threw the door open, dashed outside, and slammed the door on his nose. He shook the surprise away and tried to reason through it. _What the hell just happened?_

He frowned and tucked his chin in his hand. If he did not want Kazuha to thrash him in the street, he knew he should call her instead. Rummaging through the small pile of laundry near his closet, he fished for his cell phone and pressed Kazuha's speed dial number. He muttered, "C'mon, idiot, pick up."

When it became obvious she was _not_ picking up, Heiji spat some choice curse words and composed a text message: 'I'm sorry for what I did—' _Did I _say_ it?_ '—or what I said. I didn't mean it.' _Whatever the hell 'it' was._ 'Just give me a call later, okay?' After a moment of thought, he added, 'Sorry again.'

_That should take care of it, _Heiji thought, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling as he breathed a sigh. His gaze fell on the festival photograph. He and Kazuha were smiling and holding up their fingers for the camera, while their classmates set the tomato cutouts around them like an inner frame. Suddenly, Heiji's insides quivered.

"Am I . . . whipped?"

_Impossible—you said so yourself. Kazuha's not . . . ._

He could picture Kudou laughing his heart out right now. Yes, he could picture an enraged Kazuha yelling about him to Ran—in fact, _screaming_ about him—over the phone so loudly that Kudou would overhear the whole story.

_Yeah, impossible._

But, as Heiji scooped his now torn magazine from the floor, he reached for his desk and picked up the photograph. Wiping it clean of dust and fingerprint smudges, he set it on the main shelf of his desk, directly beneath the lamplight. It looked better there, somehow.


End file.
